A Rusty Nail
by DwaejiTokki
Summary: When Lassiter is kidnapped, it's Shawn Spencer, psychic detective, to the rescue! Using his ultra ninja skills, Shawn is also kidnapped. Oops. But at least he found Lassiter, right? Now, to escape! That is, if he and Lassie survive the torture...(Warnings inside.)
1. Chapter 1

A Rusty Nail

 **Summary** : When Lassiter is kidnapped, it's Shawn Spencer, psychic detective, to the rescue! Using his ultra ninja skills, Shawn is also kidnapped. Oops. But at least he found Lassiter, right? Now, to escape! That is, if he and Lassie survive the torture...(Warnings inside.)

 **Rating** : M, for graphic torture, blood; physical and psychological trauma; some adult language.

 **Disclaimer** : I checked, double-checked, and even triple-checked, and I can now say with absolute certainty that I do not, in fact, own Psych.

Chapter 1

Detective Carlton Lassiter was well aware that life was nothing like a movie.

As big a fan he was of action-packed movies and car chases, he knew they weren't at all accurate. Police actually knew how to fire weapons and strike their targets. Cars didn't tend to explode in midair after bottoming out on a ramp, then flip at least three times before rolling to a stop inches from the police blockade, only for the driver to crawl out relatively unscathed.

More importantly, there were no heroes. Standard police procedure prevented lone men from breaking and entering, torturing members of a kidnapping, drug-carting syndicate, and exploding cars and houses with bullets. In real life, a single man would not be able to track down a missing person, rescue that person from the hands of a ruthless gang, and get out in less than the two hours it took to film such a movie.

But it seemed a certain psychic hadn't gotten the memo.

"Hey there, Lassie!" was the cheerful greeting Lassiter had received. Despite the split lip and swollen eye, and the new additions of bumps and bruises from being thrown carelessly down the basement stairs, Shawn Spencer grinned.

Lassiter fumed silently, struggling to keep his anger in check.

"Wow, you're really beat up, Lassie," Shawn continued, eyes giving the detective a once-over before moving on to his dark surroundings.

"What the hell have you done, Spencer?" he growled at last, eyes sharpening under his bruised lids and lips thinning beneath his scruffy beard. His voice was rough and dry, the ligature marks around his throat clear as day. His salt and pepper hair was disheveled and stuck up in odd places, and his usually impeccable suit was dirty and torn. Underneath the clothing were more remnants of his mistreatment. Like the other man's, his wrists were bound with rope behind his back.

"What have I done?" Shawn repeated incredulously, testing the strength of his restraints. "I found you. It took me this long because I had to convince the spirits that you believe in them deep, deep, deep, _deep_ down."

"Cut the crap, Spencer!" Lassiter's voice cracked and instigated a coughing fit. He fixed a glare on the younger man, who had waited patiently. "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into."

"Hmm," he pursed his lips. "Wouldn't have anything to do with the Humphrey case, would it?"

Lassiter's face expressed surprise and confusion.

"It was one of your biggest cases," the pseudo-psychic continued, pushing himself up onto his feet and meandering over to the steps.

The moldy room, no more than twenty by twenty feet, was devoid of anything but themselves and the stairs. The door was bolted from the outside with four heavy-duty locks, as Shawn noticed on the way in. Their only light source was the rectangular window located at the top of the far wall, layered with grime. It was about eight feet up, but too small to admit even a toddler's escape, and did little to chase away the darkness.

"Milo Humphrey, a crime boss with a very unfortunate name and, possibly, a child actor in _Gossip Girl_ ," he continued, bending to inspect the underside of the wooden railing. "He was caught red-handed, along with several of his minions, by you. In one of the few arrests you've made that did not include the firing of a gun - kudos, by the way - Humphrey managed to relay a cryptic message via text message to several blocked numbers."

As he spoke, Shawn ascended the steps, staring intently at the railing as Lassiter watched. At last, Shawn appeared to find what he was looking for and straightened, then stood on his tippy-toes and leaned back, shoulders working up and down.

"Assuming the message," Shawn grunted as he continued his mysterious ministrations, "was the location of something big, you and the SBPD tried to decipher it. Several misses later, the case went cold. Until you, in your tap dancing revelation, suddenly figured it out.

"You dropped a quick call to Jules and told her to bring backup, and then you were off to the bar to investigate. Unfortunately, she was in the shower and didn't get your message until about three quarters of an hour later. I always tell her she showers for too long, but she never listens.

"Anyway, you were recognized. You asked all the right questions to get yourself kidnapped, and you disappeared without a trace. But your captors made one fatal mistake: They forgot that I work for the SBPD, and that I have a one hundred percent solve rate." Shawn jerked forward, giving a short victorious cry.

Noting Lassiter's dubious expression, he amended, "All right, a ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine percent solve rate."

The detective rolled his eyes as Shawn clomped loudly down the stairs and then sat down beside him.

"What were you doing over there?" Lassiter asked, jerking his chin towards the stairs.

"Oh," Shawn said. "There was a loose nail. Want it? My left wrist is sprained, so you'd probably have better luck cutting yourself free than me."

Lassiter blinked surprise as Shawn turned, proffering a bent, rusty nail. Still shaking off the utter shock that Spencer had done something sensible, something that even he hadn't thought of in the four days of his captivity, Lassiter twisted the other way and accepted it.

Once the trade was complete, they both returned to their positions leaning against the damp, musty wall. Lassiter immediately set to work, picking at the tight knots.

"Everyone's worried about you, you know," Shawn said. "Jules is going out of her mind. The Chief is running on coffee vapors. She sent Dobson home crying the other day. The station is a mess without you, dude."

The detective grunted in response, mostly tuning him out. The rusty nail was making little headway, but he'd be damned if he gave up. Technically, Spencer was a civilian, and protecting civilians was his job, no matter how annoying they were on a daily basis. It was imperative that he free them both, or at least find a way to contact the police.

He cut Shawn short by asking, "How did you know all about the case?"

"My dad told me."

"Hm. And how did you find me?"

"The spirits told me."

Lassiter rolled his eyes for the twentieth time in as many minutes. "Any idea where we are?"

"I was grabbed at the harbor," Shawn replied, squinting thoughtfully. "I pretended to be unconscious after I woke up from that pistol whipping. I was alone in the backseat of a blue Honda Civic.

"We went down Shoreline Drive, passed One Thousand Step Beach, and turned onto Meigs Road; left turn Kenwood Road, around Skyline Circle to Skyline Way and onto Flora Vista Drive; through Ellings Park...And then I got dizzy and lost track, but I think we're somewhere in the Ynez mountains. I didn't really wake up again until we were in the house, and then they were mean to me, as you can see."

The detective scowled. The only really useful pieces of information was the car and the mountain range. "An 'I don't know' would have sufficed."

"Oh, come on. Give me a break. I've been pulling all-nighters looking for y- for spirits to help me find you."

Lassiter heaved a sigh, shaking his head.

"So what do they want from you, Lassie-face?"

"As far as I can tell," he replied, hissing as he prodded himself with the nail, "they're keeping me until Humphrey is let off parole."

"Parole?" Shawn pulled a face. "I thought he was in prison."

"There wasn't enough evidence to nab him for everything," Lassiter muttered bitterly. "And he got out early on good behavior, the sick bastard."

"The system works, Lassie," Shawn said dryly.

"Shut up, Spencer!"

"When's the hearing?"

"If I've been keeping track of time right, today."

"Great!" Shawn exclaimed. "So when Humphrey gets here, we'll just explain to him that his buddies out there were very rude, and he'll apologize and let us go."

"What is wrong with you?"

"I have a concussion."

"Anyway," Lassiter bit out, "we're not going to be here when Humphrey arrives. I've almost got this knot out, and then we'll escape. As far as I can tell, there's only two men up there."

"Three."

"I can take them," he insisted.

"They're armed, we're not," Shawn said, for once the voice of reason. "Unless, of course, you count that rusty nail."

"Listen, Spencer," Lassiter sighed. "Under no circumstances are you to say anything to these bastards. Do whatever they tell you to do, and keep your big mouth shut. They are notorious for their ruthlessness, understand?"

"Crystal," Shawn replied. "I've seen the pictures. But what if they tell me to talk?"

"Then you answer their questions," he said, exasperated, "but no more than that. A simple yes or no, if you can."

"You act like I've never been in a hostage situation before."

Lassiter stopped picking at the knots so that he could muster an incredulous expression and direct it at the idiot beside him. "This is not a hostage situation! There's no ransom, Spencer. Look, if you keep your mouth shut, I might be able to convince them to let you go mostly intact, but they're going to murder me. That's what they do. It's what they want."

Shawn pursed his lips. " 'Mostly intact'?"

Before Lassiter could retort, the echoing sound of a bolt unlatching interrupted them. Both men turned their heads toward the door, waiting pensively as the second lock was opened, and then the third, and finally the fourth. After what felt to be an eternity, the door swung open, and three men entered.

In the shadows, they looked quite menacing.

The one thing Lassiter was thankful for was that these men did not look like the typical "bad guys" in movies. Not one of them had a facial scar, nor did they wear an eyepatch, nor had they handlebar mustaches. They simply looked like normal, everyday men that one saw walking the street or shopping at the local supermarket - Perhaps driving their children to school in the wife's minivan.

Luckily, Shawn seemed to be heeding his advice for once, and kept his mouth shut. If Lassiter had glanced over, however, he would have noticed Shawn scrutinizing each of the gang members with a critical head tilt, eyes narrowed even further in the darkness.

Contrary to Lassiter's initial assessment, Shawn noticed that the man in the middle had a small white scar on his chin. It had likely been the result of a fall from a bike when he was child; it was a common injury. They all were about the same height - average, approximately five foot ten. The oldest appeared to be somewhere in his early forties, while the youngest could not have been a day over thirty.

All three were chronic smokers. Shawn could clearly see the bulge of a cigarette package in one's jeans pocket. The men's fingernails were stained yellow with tar from repeated exposure to tobacco smoke, and he was sure that if he were to catch a glimpse of their teeth they would show the same hygienic neglect. The premature wrinkles around their eyes and on their necks were also telltale signs. They probably smoked together, possibly played poker as they did.

At last, Shawn took a moment to appreciate the shiny, police-grade pistols in their dominant hands. The oldest man was a lefty.

"Who is he?"

It was Lefty who had spoken, directing the question to Lassiter as he gestured to Shawn. Lassiter curtly replied, "An acquaintance of mine. A coworker, nothing more."

Shawn suppressed a disappointed sigh. He should have known that Lassiter would never freely admit that he was, in fact, the head psychic detective for the SBPD. Okay, he was the _only_ psychic detective, but that didn't mean he couldn't have a higher rank.

He decided to correct him so the men didn't get the wrong idea. "Actually, I'm -"

Shawn never got to finish his statement, as Lefty, who also happened to be standing closest to him, lashed out with his boot and caught him square in the mouth. The pseudo-psychic recoiled, grunting half in surprise and half in pain as the steeled toe connected with his lips. He was glad his mouth hadn't been opened - otherwise he might have lost a few teeth. Then the pain intensified and he groaned softly. He could practically feel his lips swelling.

At least he wasn't bleeding again. That thought was quickly reassessed when he tasted copper.

Lassiter might have felt a bit more sympathy had Shawn not spoken. As it was, he hoped the man had learned his lesson and would _stay_ silent.

"Who is he?" Lefty repeated, shifting his gun so that it pointed straight at Shawn's face. "I want a name."

"Shawn Spencer," the detective bit out.

"Why is he searching for you? Is he not working with the police?"

It seemed obvious that Lefty was the leader, as he was the only one speaking.

"He is working with them," Lassiter answered.

"Why?"

"He has valuable - resources."

The pause as he searched for a word to describe Shawn's ability was so short that even Shawn almost missed it, but he caught it nonetheless and rolled his eyes. He pursed and relaxed his lips repeatedly, trying to fight the onsetting numbness. It hurt the clotted cut that he had received several hours ago, but there was no time to dwell on that. He discovered that the blood he was tasting was originating from his bitten tongue.

Lefty harrumphed. "If he's so valuable, why didn't your little police friends keep up with him?"

"I don't know."

"Seems he's dispensable, if you ask me."

Lassiter and Shawn both tensed at this, more acutely aware than ever of the man's finger on the trigger.

But then, much to their relief, Lefty and his men wordlessly turned to leave. They took their sweet time about it. Once they were finally out, the door closed behind them and they locked all four deadbolts.

The two captives visibly relaxed as their footsteps receded.

Until Lassiter turned to Shawn. "Sweet justice, Spencer, what did I just tell you?!"

"Lassie," Shawn sighed, "don't be the gum on the bottom of my shoe."

"You could have gotten yourself killed right then, and -"

"Oh, come on, I was just going to tell -"

"I don't want to have to deal O'Hara and your father and Guster when I tell them why -"

"You never want me to get my full dues because you're jealous of my -"

"How are you still alive with all the trouble you cause on a daily -"

"Listen, Lassie, I know you didn't get that pony you wanted when you were a kid, but -"

"How do you know about Mr. Twinkles?!"

"Psychic, duh! And, really? 'Mr. Twinkles'?"

"Shut up, Spencer! Now is not the time to -"

Their bickering was interrupted by the sudden ferocious sound of a dog growling. Startled, Shawn looked down at Lassiter's stomach. "Are you hiding Lassie, Jr. in there?"

For the first time during his captivity, Lassiter was glad that his beard had grown out. It served well to hide the red flush that crept across his cheeks. "I haven't much to eat these past few days."

Shawn looked at him incredulously. "They haven't fed you in four days?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Spencer," Lassiter retorted. "I've been given one meal a day. It's not the most nutritional, but it keep me alive, at least."

The younger man frowned thoughtfully. "What do they give you?"

"A slice of stale white bread, a dry wedge of cheddar cheese, and half a glass of lukewarm milk."

Shawn looked at him as though waiting for the punchline. When none was forthcoming, his jaw dropped in horror. "Oh, my god! Dude, we've gotta get out of here. I can't live on that! Oh, god! HELP! SOMEBODY HELP US!"

"Spencer!" Lassiter snapped.

Shawn sat back down calmly, chuckling a little. Lassiter rolled his eyes when he realized that the psychic was making a game of it. He shook himself a little, remembering that he had a mission. He fitted the rusty nail back into the knot he had been struggling with and set to work.

They remained in an almost companionable silence, but as with all silences, Shawn felt the overwhelming need to break it.

"I'm sorry I got caught," he said seriously, spitting a suspiciously dark liquid. "I was getting too close without calling backup. As usual."

Lassiter paused in his ministrations and looked at Shawn, eyebrows scrunched together. The psychic wasn't looking at him, a sign that he was being sincere.

He heaved a sigh and rolled his shoulders. "It's not like you meant to get captured, Spencer," he said gruffly, leaving out that he had made the same mistake not even a week ago. "Why don't you get some sleep?"

Shawn smiled a little. "You'll wake me when it's time to go, right?" he asked. "You're not going to leave me?"

The unspoken 'even though I'm really annoying and you dislike me' hung at the end of the question. It actually stung Lassiter a little, to tell the truth. Though he had sadistically imagined different scenarios that involved the younger Spencer's bodily harm, he never intended - nor wanted - for it to ever happen.

"I'll think about it," Lassiter replied. There was no venom in his words, though. There was a promise in it, and Shawn heard it loud and clear.

"G'night, Lassie," Shawn said brightly.

The detective merely grunted in response as Shawn lay on his side, wriggling into as comfortable a position as he could manage with his hands roped behind his back. Lassiter quietly continued loosening the knot, listening to the slow and steady sound of Shawn's breathing. Soon enough, both men were asleep, the rusty nail in Lassiter's hand forgotten for the night.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Head Detective Carlton Lassiter had no choice but to break his promise.

He silently cursed himself for falling asleep. Because of his lack of discipline, he had not escaped, and thus had failed himself, Shawn, Marlowe, and the entire SBPD. Maybe even all of Santa Barbara. If Lassiter got out of there alive, he knew he'd be practicing more kidnapping scenarios, and definitely learning the quickest and most efficient way of untying knots with nails. As it was, he tried to give Shawn a reassuring look as he was dragged away.

Shawn's brow crinkled in concern, so Lassiter supposed his reassuring look hadn't been so reassuring after all.

As the men shut the door without bothering to lock it again, Lassiter clenched the rusty nail tightly in his fist, hoping that no one found it or noticed that the rope was a tidbit looser than it was before. He cast his eyes around, looking for some sort of advantage, but found none.

They were in a cabin, by the looks of the log walls. It was relatively large for a cabin, made apparent by the several doors that branched off from the room in which he found himself. It was rather bare. Nothing hung on the walls, but the windows had blinds drawn across them so Lassiter couldn't determine their location. As far as he could see, there were only five pieces of furniture: a small, banged-up coffee table in the center of the room and four folding chairs surrounding it. A very familiar man was seated in one, watching coolly as Lassiter was forced to approach.

"Hello, Detective," said the man cordially. He was not a tall man, only reaching about five foot six. He wore a smart black suit, similar to the ones Lassiter wore, with a powerful red tie. His graying brown hair was slicked back, accentuating his high brow and angled cheeks. Despite the heavy wrinkling around his amber eyes, the man looked rather young, though he was nearing his fifties.

"Humphrey," Lassiter's lip curled in disgust.

"Ah," he smiled. "Glad to see you remember me. I almost didn't recognize _you,_ what with your new looks. This makes revenge all the more sweet."

"Of course," Lassiter muttered, ignoring the jibe. He knew he looked like he'd been scraped up from the lowest floor of hell. He'd figured as much as revenge for his reasons for being kidnapped. Simply asking around wasn't enough to warrant his death, not when their leader was already in jail. But, since Humphrey was out on parole...It was a different matter entirely.

"I'd like to tell you a little story, Detective," Humphrey continued. "Please, sit." Lassiter didn't move or speak, but it seemed he wasn't expected to. The lackeys all took one of the available seats, almost simultaneously taking out cigarettes and lighting them up.

"Once upon a time," Humphrey began, crossing one leg over the other, "there was a little detective who thought he could save everyone. He put away lots and lots of big bad wolves, and saved lots and lots of little piggies, and made his little town all happy.

"And one day, the little detective managed to put away the biggest, baddest wolf. The biggest, baddest wolf swore revenge on the little detective, but the little detective only laughed. Little did that little detective know that the biggest, baddest wolf had many, many, many, _many_ friends.

"And, while in jail, the biggest, baddest wolf made even more friends, and formed new connections, and grew stronger every single day. Even though the biggest, baddest wolf was behind bars, he still ruled over the little piggies and the dastardly crows who did his bidding. And soon, the biggest, baddest wolf had pulled a few strings and got out of jail early.

"Now the biggest, baddest wolf could take his revenge on the little detective. He planned it very carefully, and struck at just the right time so that he had a diamond-hard alibi. No one would ever find out that the little detective had been eaten by the biggest, _baddest_ wolf," Humphrey finished at last, grinning and looking quite happy with his story.

Lassiter showed no signs that he had been affected by the telling, although his bruised eyes remained piercingly on Humphrey. All he could think, privately, was that Humphrey was a typical villain, what with his monologue and all.

"Nothing to say, Detective?" Humphrey raised a condescending eyebrow, eyes twinkling with pleasure.

"The man downstairs," Lassiter said sharply, "Spencer. He has nothing to do with this. He was investigating my disappearance because he was hired to, no other reason than that. If you blindfold him, he will not be able to tell anyone our location, nor who you are. Let him go, and I will not resist, nor try to escape."

He stared Humphrey down, daring him to defy his request.

As the detective had spoken, Humphrey had adopted a thoughtful expression, but now that Lassiter was finished, he was grinning fully. He and his three men burst out laughing, one of them nearly choking on his cigarette. Lassiter scowled darkly, feeling the sharp point of the nail poking into his calloused palm.

"Don't make me laugh, Detective," chortled Humphrey, wiping an eye. "You know me better than most of my men. We have never let anyone escape, least of all someone who has seen our faces."

The three men nodded in agreement. One of them reached for another cigarette.

Well, it had been worth a try.

Lassiter clenched his jaw and prepared to say nothing else. It wouldn't be difficult.

Humphrey sighed dramatically, in true bad guy fashion. "Escort the detective back to his room, if you would, boys. I have things I must attend to." With that, he pulled out his cell phone and began to text, the speed of his thumbs rivaling most teenagers'.

This time only Lefty rose, snuffing out the burning end of his cigarette on the table. That accounted for the worst of its abuse, it seemed. Lefty gripped Lassiter's arm and steered him back to the door, which he easily swung open. The detective was released and nudged forward to keep him walking downstairs of his own accord.

Lassiter's breath seemed to whoosh out of him all at once as his eyes roamed the basement, while Lefty gasped in horror.

Shawn was gone.

"Shit!" cursed Lefty, whipping around frantically. "When did he get out?!"

The others, still seated, asked what he was talking about.

Lefty slammed the door shut and locked it hurriedly. Lassiter could hear the startled and confused murmuring in the next room from his place by the door, then the stamping feet as they ran out to search. Lassiter racked his brain for a moment that Shawn could have snuck out of the door, but failed to find one.

Needless to say, Lassiter was thoroughly impressed.

He descended the rest of the stairs carefully, then proceeded to his spot by the wall. He hoped that Spencer had managed to get enough of a head start so that he could call for -

"Aren't you untied yet?" whispered Shawn from his hiding place underneath the stairs. "Come on, hurry! We need to get free before they come back!"

Lassiter gaped at him for a moment, then sputtered, "Spencer, you idiot!"

Shawn smirked mischievously and shrugged.

With a short growl, Lassiter renewed his fervent efforts of loosening the knots. He'd already managed to slip one out, but that left the second one. Lassiter twisted, feeling the burn in his wrists something fierce, but he steadfastly refused to give up. If they were caught, more specifically the idiot, they were in for a world of trouble.

Barking victoriously, Lassiter pulled his arms to his sides, the ropes sliding and falling. He snatched them up and pushed himself into the small space Shawn had taken up. He stuffed the nail into his pants pocket, then immediately set to work on Shawn's bonds.

Shawn hissed uncomfortably at Lassiter's rough tugging, but stayed still without complaint. It was all too possible for the men to barge back in and discover their hideout, and neither Shawn nor Lassiter liked the odds of them winning, weakened as Lassiter was, and the currently useless Shawn.

Luckily for them both, Lassiter was quite adept at untying knots. It stemmed from his youth, when his baby sister brought tangled yo-yos to him in tears, and then after he had graduated the police academy, when he decided that in order to be the best, he needed to be able to get out of any situation. Though many regarded his ideas as unnecessary and ridiculous, Lassiter owed his life to them - and now, Shawn might, too.

Oh, the fun Lassiter would have rubbing it in Shawn's face after they escaped.

Once he was freed, Shawn brought his hands in front of him to cradle his swollen left wrist to his chest. The unlikely (and temporary) partners waited with bated breath for the gang to return, crouching uncomfortably close in the cramped space under the dusty steps.

Their only chance of getting out alive was to incapacitate the men above and procure their weapons. They could even use the ropes to bind the men together, take their phones, and lock them in the basement for a taste of their own medicine. Then Lassiter would contact the SBPD, have Shawn carted off in an ambulance to deal with Guster and his father at the hospital, be reunited with his official junior detective, and file a report. Only then would he go home to Marlowe, eat a hot meal with her, and maybe have sex, if he was feeling up to it. Oh, who was he kidding - He was always up for sex with Marlowe. Unless he was trying to figure out a case: Then it could wait a while.

It wasn't long before the thundering steps returned, the men shouting at one another. Humphrey could be heard above the other three, berating them for being idiots and threatening to end their lives. From what Shawn could gather, they were planning on packing Lassiter into the Honda Civic and getting the hell out of there to another hideout. They obviously had found no trace of Shawn's escape and believed he had managed to get away successfully.

He smirked proudly despite the pain it caused him, resisting the urge to turn so Lassiter could see his face. It was a bit too dark for that, anyway.

The door was slammed open, and pounding feet sent plumes of dust showering down on the men below.

"What the fuck?!"

So they discovered that Lassiter was missing as well.

"Find him!" roared Humphrey.

Shawn felt uneasy about attacking the men, seeing as they were outnumbered, weak, and at the disadvantage of being weaponless. But he steeled himself, knowing that if they didn't try with the element of surprise, they'd be dead.

That just wouldn't do.

With the men's backs turned, and feeling Lassiter tense beside him, Shawn prepared himself to carry out a reckless plan. He knew instantly that the head detective was going to grab the sturdier-looking one, so Shawn was left with, well, Lefty. Good thing Shawn was a righty.

They attacked silently.

The element of surprise gave them an advantage, but only for a few seconds. In that time, Humphrey and the youngest thug, who had stayed back, had seemed to rouse themselves and pulled their weapons. The two who were under attack also got their bearings as well, particularly the more experienced Lefty, who immediately spotted Shawn's weakness and went for it.

Lassiter, startled by Shawn's cry of pain as his sprained wrist was forced into a pressure position, was quickly overpowered by his own adversary and forced to his knees at the base of the stairs. A moment after, Shawn joined him, wrist throbbing so intensely that it brought tears to his eyes.

Humphrey chuckled through clenched teeth, a rather dangerous gleam in his eyes. He descended the steps slowly and stopped a few from the bottom, glaring down at his prisoners. "Well done, well done," he said, smiling tightly.

Shawn spit, landing a direct hit on Humphrey's polished shoe.

Lassiter's stomach sank in dismay, knowing that Shawn's hotheadedness could very well be the difference between a quick death or a slow, agonizing one. By the expression on Humphrey's face, he was leaning verily toward the latter.

The younger Spencer glared defiantly. "You shouldn't smoke, you know," he announced loudly. "Smoking causes cancer, stroke, and can even lead to -"

A brutal left hook to the ribs was enough to shut Shawn up and send him into a wheezy coughing fit.

Humphrey waited patiently for Shawn to pull himself together before continuing, directing his attention to Lassiter. "Very clever, Detective. Very brave. But not clever nor brave enough. I'm afraid I'll have to punish you."

Before Lassiter could even open his mouth to claim that the plan was all his, there was a sharp, blinding pain on the back of his head. He knew very well that he had been struck with the butt of a gun, but before his brain could comprehend that knowledge he was already unconscious.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The first coherent thought in Lassiter's brain was that it was too bright. The light that struck his face was also warm, indicating that it most likely sunlight. But he was certain that he was inside, due to the lack of natural sounds.

His mouth was also exceedingly dry. If he didn't receive water soon, he was sure to become dehydrated. He tried to lick his lips to glean some moisture, but found his tongue blocked by something that didn't taste too good.

His head hurt. A lot. Concussion.

He felt something strapped to his arms.

Lassiter finally deduced, with more than a little relief, that he was in the hospital.

But then he woke up a little more, and felt the hunger pangs, the pain in his head and limbs, and the chair in which he was sitting. Somehow he didn't feel so safe anymore.

The detective forced himself to remain calm and remember what had happened. His sluggish mind finally caught up: bar, kidnapped, basement, Spencer, Humphrey, fight, fail. Great.

Spencer.

At last, Lassiter jerked himself to full wakefulness, his eyes opening independently of one another. He quickly realized that his wrists and ankles had been securely roped to the arms and legs of the same chair that Humphrey had occupied before, and that he was no longer wearing his shirt. Directly across from him on the other side of the ruined table was Shawn, still slumped in his own bonds. There was a bit of blood drying on his right temple. He was also shirtless, for some odd reason.

Lassiter tore his eyes from the other man and searched his surroundings. The blinds over the windows had been drawn open, revealing that they were in the mountains, just as Shawn had guessed. He looked around, concluding that they had been, for the time being, left alone.

He took the time to start working the ropes loose, rubbing away another layer of tender red skin in the process. The detective frantically worked his ankles as well, knowing that any time he could save would benefit both himself and Shawn, who finally seemed to be coming to.

Shawn moaned, lifting his slightly before dropping it back down.

" 'pen'r." Lassiter cursed through the gag when he noticed it, but proceeded to unintelligibly call 'Spencer.'

Shawn, squinting, reared his head. It took him a moment to focus on the older man, but when he did he only appeared concerned and confused. "Huh?"

Lassiter tried his best to convey through his eyes that everything would be all right, that Shawn should try to work himself free, but Shawn's gaze had wandered about the room, occasionally stopping to stare intently at something before roaming away.

The detective cursed again. Even from his distance he could see the uneven pupils. Being concussed twice in the span of twenty-four hours could not have done the younger Spencer any favors. He redoubled his efforts, knowing that it was up to him even if he lost both his arms and a leg. He could hop Shawn to safety if need be.

Failing - again - was out of the question.

Just as Lassiter had resolved this, unfortunately, Humphrey and his three men made an appearance. He stilled with one final jerk, lifting his furious glare up to Humphrey, the leader and chief cause of his and Shawn's suffering.

Despite his confusion, Shawn finally seemed to understand that he and Lassiter were in severe danger, and began twisting his arms back and forth quietly.

"Good morning, Detective," Humphrey greeted lightly.

No response was expected, obviously, since the prisoners were so well gagged - Lassiter with his own tie, and Shawn with someone else's. It didn't belong to any of the men in the room, the detective was sure. It was too garish - yellow, with what looked like a phonebooth print. But then he forced the mystery from his mind as he prepared himself to be struck.

No hit came, as Humphrey had merely raised his hand to snap his fingers.

Lefty stepped up to Shawn and wrapped his hands around his throat, squeezing just enough so that Shawn had to tilt his head back to get a strain of air. Lassiter's face hardened, his gaze casting from the psychic to Humphrey and back.

"We considered simply killing him," Humphrey explained, slowly stepping around Lassiter to speak into his ear. With the crime boss behind him, Lassiter was given a front row seat to whatever Shawn would have to endure. It made him feel sick to his stomach. "But then I thought, well, why not let you suffer through your failure? It is, after all, your job to protect the innocents.

"Shawn here - Shawn, isn't it? Yes, Shawn here had nothing to do with me. It was all you. But then you just had to go around asking questions, getting the police involved. They found out you were missing much too soon, Detective. If you hadn't told anyone, then Shawn here wouldn't be here, now would he?"

As Humphrey spoke, Lefty had slowly and steadily tightened his grasp around Shawn's neck, cutting off his air. When Shawn began to choke, writhing in his bonds, Lassiter renewed his struggles, yelling furiously into his gag. None of his words were decipherable, though, and Humphrey didn't deem them important enough to warrant a removal of the gag.

Shawn's red face quickly began to turn blue, and Lassiter turned his head to shoot a pleading look at Humphrey, begging - begging! - for Shawn's life. Humphrey roughly grabbed Lassiter's scruffy face and forced him to witness the torture.

Just as Shawn began to go limp, making a horrible sound somewhere in his chest, Lefty let go and stepped back. Lassiter sagged in relief when Shawn coughed harshly and heaved lungfuls of air, his face returning to its natural color.

"Let's see how much he can take, hm?" Humphrey said behind Lassiter.

Grinning maliciously, Lefty stepped forward again, hands reaching. Shawn shied away, but restrained as he was could not escape. Lefty squeezed so hard that his knuckles turned white, and Lassiter could only watch in horror as Shawn struggled. The chair nearly tipped over, but one of the other men quickly righted it and held it still until the prisoner's strength began to sap.

Once more, Shawn was finally allowed to gasp and choke, and Lassiter released the breath he hadn't realize he had been holding. He tried to plead through his gag, but Humphrey was, as expected, merciless.

Twice more Shawn was deprived of breath, until the last time he hardly resisted. Humphrey, unwilling to kill Shawn just yet, bade Lefty to stop. For the time being, Shawn was left alone.

Perfectly fine with Lassiter, who was glaring daggers at Lefty.

"Now, Detective, don't worry," Humphrey said consolingly. "It'll be your turn soon enough. Tell me, how would you like to go out? A bang? An explosion? A splash, perhaps?"

Lassiter only stared defiantly, unblinkingly. His wrists stung horribly, and he didn't need to look to know that all his thrashing had drawn blood. He was sure that Shawn was in a similar state, if not a little worse off.

"Not that you have a say, mind," Humphrey continued, shrugging. "But I promise you it'll be good, Detective."

He cocked his head slightly, listening to Shawn's breathing.

"Well, that's enough of a respite," he said.

Lassiter's eyes widened, and he bit down on his tie. Humphrey smirked, as did Lefty and the other two nameless minions.

Shawn lifted his head as the youngest member of the gang approached, hands held loosely at his sides. He squinted a bit suspiciously, but mostly in pain as the dry air grated his abused throat and hit his aching lungs.

The pseudo-psychic flinched at the cold hand on his throat, but unlike Lassiter didn't realize that the hand was a distraction. Shawn was unprepared for the blow to his stomach, and he grunted, trying to double over against the agony. Winded as he was, Shawn was easily held at bay by the hand wrapped around his throat.

Three more hits came in quick succession, leaving Shawn breathless and writhing. Lassiter squeezed his eyes shut, teeth clenched. There was nothing he could do. Absolutely nothing.

Shawn gasped and coughed, whimpering in between. Even Lassiter's supposedly stone cold heart broke a little at the sound, though he didn't dare open his eyes. The other four men watched Shawn like a cruel, vicious hawk did its prey.

When there was no sound or movement except for Shawn's, Lassiter slowly opened his eyes to see that everyone was watching him. He quickly schooled his expression into an angry mask. Though acutely aware that Shawn was looking at him, he refused to return the gaze, scared of what he might see.

Shawn would be scared, hurt. Lassiter was sure that the younger man would hate him for not saving him, and he didn't blame him if he did.

The first one to move was the third man, who had not yet taken a turn inflicting pain. In one swift movement, he had wheeled around, striking Shawn open-handedly across the face. With a crack like lightning, Shawn's head was whipped to one side, though he didn't cry out. Lassiter, realizing that his glares were entertaining the men and giving them reason to hurt Shawn more, averted his eyes to the floor.

He heard the men chuckle, and though the sound lit the fires of righteous fury in the depth of his bowels, Lassiter remained submissive. Even if he couldn't save Shawn's life, he could at least save him more pain.

When he heard the tiny, sharp click of a switchblade, Lassiter was both terrified and glad. They were going to kill Shawn, finally. He squeezed his eyes closed, praying that it was quick for him.

Despite his voluntary blindness, the detective could still hear quite clearly. Shawn cried out - loudly, woundedly. The sound would haunt Lassiter for the rest of his very, very short life. At least Shawn didn't have to endure anymore.

But when the cry came again, more desperate than before, Lassiter's eyes snapped open and he raised his head in alarm. Shawn's back arched as the blade was drawn across his ribs for a third time, mouth opened in a silent scream. Lassiter jerked in his bonds, momentarily forgetting that he could not go to the psychic's aid.

Crimson blood trailed down Shawn's heaving sides, soaking into the waist of his jeans. He twisted violently, his only conscious thought, understandly, to get away from the pain, to self-preserve. With a chest-wracking sob, Shawn settled back into the chair, fixating his tormentor with a feverish glare.

The man only took a long drag on his newly-lit cigarette, smiling. He pressed the knife to Shawn's ribs again. When Shawn bucked his body, attempting to throw the blade off, it pierced him more deeply than intended.

"Damn it," the wielder of the switchblade said calmly. "Now we'll have to cauterize."

To Lassiter's horror, the man lowered his cigarette to the laceration and applied the burning end. Once again, Shawn screamed and miserably tried to jerk away, but to no avail. Lassiter renewed his begging, knowing that it would do no good, that no one could understand him - although that might as well have been a lie. His voice was nearly gone, sometimes only coming in hoarse bouts of air.

After wiping the blood from his blade on Shawn's pants leg, the man put away the weapon and dropped the reddened, dead cigarette onto the coffee table. Shawn heaved, letting out several sobs, and hunched over. Lassiter tugged absently at the ropes, unable to tear his gaze away.

They weren't going to stop. Shawn was going to die even more horribly than most of Humphrey's victims, and that was - that was saying something. And there was still nothing Lassiter could do to stop it, nothing he could say, nothing to trade.

And worst of all, Humphrey was right. All of this _was_ Lassiter's fault. If he hadn't gone to the bar alone, none of this would have happened. Or, alternatively, if he hadn't _told_ O'Hara where he had gone and why, this would never have happened. Lassiter would have already been dead before the SBPD even found a lead.

Suddenly Lassiter was hunched over as Shawn was, stomach heaving up sour bile. It dribbled past the gag, soaking it and Lassiter's pants. The rest of it ran into Lassiter's beard and dripped from his chin. An embarrassing moment of weakness, but Lassiter found he didn't care one bit.

He looked up to see that the men were guffawing. Then Shawn caught his eye, looking at him sadly. But somehow, through the sheer agony Shawn must have been feeling, and despite the gag limiting facial movement - Shawn gave him a reassuring smile. A blameless smile.

It took Lassiter's breath away.

He'd never noticed how selfless and kind Shawn was before then, and he didn't mean it in a _love_ sort of way. It was as though suddenly Lassiter was in the presence of some deity, some holy figure who had stepped down onto earth to grace despicable humans.

And Lassiter had killed him.

Lefty left the room for a moment and returned with a gallon-sized white plastic jug, unscrewing the cap as he walked. The other men moved aside, one of them taking a seat. It wasn't until that moment that Lassiter fully realized that Humphrey had sat down several minutes ago, leaving him to antagonize himself.

Lassiter sincerely hoped that the jug only contained water. After all, it seemed the liquid inside the unlabeled container was clear. Water was clear, wasn't it?!

Shawn, however, clenched his mouth shut, pressing his lips tightly against the gag. He glared defiantly at Lefty, but it was clear as day how terrified he was due to his quick, labored breathing and trembling muscles. Lassiter's stomach threatened to purge itself again.

And then the odor reached him.

The detective had trained himself, much like a puppy in a K-9 unit, to recognize the smells of different chemicals, foods, and plants. This was one he never had trouble remembering - He used it on a daily basis.

It was ammonia.

The psychic obviously recognized it, too. He knew the deadly consequences of ingesting the chemical. As Lefty moved closer, Shawn squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips even more tightly, holding his breath.

But Lefty didn't seem to concerned about his face. He tipped the jug forward, spilling it onto Shawn's chest.

Shawn jolted in surprise, eyes flying open at the cold sensation. Then the ammonia reached his cut ribs, and he groaned loudly. The chemical seeped into his bloodstream. Even more dangerous than swallowing it.

After a minute of watching Shawn wince at the sting, Lefty poured another helping. Shawn cried out as more poison touched his already burning skin.

Before Lassiter's eyes, he could see the pink rash turn to red as the corrosive ammonia worked on Shawn's skin. Soon enough, blood blisters began to form, especially around the still weeping wounds on his ribs. The first agonized tears fell from Shawn's eyes as he gasped and whined, and to Lassiter, it spelled the end of the world.

He'd never wanted to see anything like this happen to anyone, let alone be the cause of it. Lassiter would have given anything, even his own kid sister, just to take Shawn Spencer's place at that moment.

A strangled sob forced its way from Shawn's bruised, raw throat as Lefty dumped the last of the ammonia over him. Dropping the jug to the floor, the man casually went to lean against the wall to watch.

All too suddenly, Shawn's head fell back, his body going rigid in the chair. The convulsions started, and Lassiter knew, without a doubt, that Shawn's suffering was nearing to an end. He didn't cry; he was relieved that Shawn was on the brink of death now.

Shawn slumped forward once his seizure stopped, head lolling onto his chest. His eyes were glazed over, bloodshot and unfocused. Lassiter knew that Shawn was no longer aware of anything, even if he was still awake. Shawn retched once, twice, three times. A dribble of frothy white substance oozed its way from his mouth, dripping down his stubbled chin.

Then his eyes slipped closed and his body went lax. A dark stain spread from the crotch of Shawn's jeans.

And then Lassiter knew he was dead.

He wasn't sad. He wasn't angry.

Lassiter just watched in morbid fascination as Lefty approached and pressed two fingers to Shawn's jugular, checking for a pulse. He motioned to the other two to unstrap Shawn from the chair, he himself going to the corner of the room and retrieving one of two large tarps. He unfurled it on the floor behind the chair.

The three men, as Lassiter and Humphrey witnessed, dumped Shawn heavily onto on end, then rolled him up in the tarp. Shawn's head and limbs flopped lifelessly, grotesquely. Lassiter wanted them to remove Shawn's gag, but somehow couldn't bring himself to find the right words. Humphrey said something, but Lassiter only heard it as a low buzzing in his ears.

Shawn, hidden in a blue cocoon, was lifted between the three of them and carried out of the detective's sight, out of the cabin.

Still Lassiter felt nothing as he stared at the abandoned chair where Shawn had been sitting only a few minutes ago.

Shawn was dead.

With that thought, everything hit Lassiter all at once, and he found himself falling into unconsciousness, ears ringing. Then everything was dark and silent.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The next thing Carlton Lassiter was aware of was distant voices, of hands touching him. He was going to die, possibly in an even more horrible fashion than Shawn. Probably for the first time since Shawn had been thrown down in the basement with him, Lassiter feared for his life - feared the pain that was to come - feared the death that was to come.

Self-preservation awakened.

Agitated and panicking, Lassiter went rigid in his bonds, heart racing in his sore throat. He flailed desperately, hitting and scratching anything that his hands and feet met. He didn't want to die, he didn't want to die, he didn't want to die, he didn't want to die -

"Carlton!"

The voice was familiar, one he knew, and the hand gripping his own tightly was grounding, comforting. When she said his name again, Lassiter finally recognized Juliet and stopped fighting.

It was only when he forced his eyes open that he realized he was no longer restrained in the chair and was no longer gagged, and that he was being strapped onto a gurney by calm medical professionals. His frantic gaze passed blindly over a stricken Chief Vick and shell-shocked Officer McNab to land on O'Hara, his trusted partner.

He tried to say her name, but no sound but raspy air came out of his mouth.

She nodded, eyes shining with unshed tears, and held tightly to his hand. He squeezed back a little uncertainly, then with all his limited strength as a paramedic suddenly placed an oxygen mask over his face.

"It's okay, Carlton," Juliet said quickly, softly. "You're safe now. You're safe. Don't fight. They're helping you, Carlton."

His fixed his dazed expression on her again, hanging on to her every word. He needed it, needed her to tell him he was all right, sweet justice - he needed it like he needed air. The gurney began to move, and his hand clenched desperately around hers. She kept up, still reassuring him, promising that everything was going to be fine.

Briefly Lassiter wondered whether what he was experiencing was a dream.

But then reality crashed down on him as he remembered Shawn again. He had to tell Juliet. It was only fair that she heard it from him.

"O'Ha-ra," Lassiter croaked out with difficulty. She responded with his own name. That wasn't what he wanted. He needed to tell her how sorry he was, that he had failed, that Shawn was dead - had died a terrible death because Lassiter had failed.

When he opened his mouth to relay all of this, nothing came out. He was enveloped by the darkness once more.

* * *

When the heart monitor woke him, Lassiter knew that he was supposed to be feeling something. Not physically - the morphine that was being pumped via the saline drip in the crook of his elbow would remedy that. No, he was supposed to be feeling something emotionally, wasn't he?

Anger.

Sadness.

Happiness?

But he didn't feel any of that. Just...nothing.

When his eyes finally fluttered open, they were drawn to the movement on the other side of the room. In front of the blinded windows stood Juliet and Marlowe, both speaking in hushed tones, both repeatedly wiping tears from their flushed cheeks.

For a long moment, Lassiter wondered what they were talking about, but he didn't get a chance to make out what they were saying because Marlowe glanced over at him. She stopped mid-sentence, tears running anew, and she hurried over to his bedside. Her face lit up in such a happy, relieved smile that at last Lassiter felt something: love. Lassiter returned her smile, raising a hand to stroke her hair.

He noticed the stark white bandages that were wrapped around his wrists, and the feeling ebbed, taking his smile with it.

Marlowe and Juliet both saw and quickly reassured him that there wouldn't be any scarring. But that wasn't what Lassiter cared about. Even so, he just nodded tiredly in response.

"How are you feeling?" Marlowe asked, eyes searching his face. "Are you thirsty? Hungry? Do you want to sit up? Watch TV? I brought your electric razor, if you want to shave. I'll help you!"

Lassiter blinked slowly at her, mind racing as he tried to keep up.

Juliet finally intervened. "How are you feeling, Carlton?"

He mulled the question over for a long moment before finding a response that suited him. "Numb."

"Good, good," Juliet said, nodding. "How are you holding up?"

He gave her a quizzical look and repeated, "Numb - numb...ly?"

Marlowe gasped as though she had been shot, carefully caressing Lassiter's bruised face. "What have they done to you?"

Lassiter tried to find a response for that, and was saved by a knock at the door. Gus appeared, cautiously poking his head inside. Seeing that Lassiter was awake, he nodded by way of greeting, looking thoroughly uncomfortable.

"Juliet," he said, turning to her, "Shawn's awake."

As the heart monitor suddenly spiked, everyone turned their startled attentions to Lassiter, who was gaping at Gus.

"Carlton?" Marlowe asked, concerned.

"Sh-Shawn?" Lassiter repeated, shocked. "Alive?"

Gus looked confused, nodding at him. "Yes, Shawn's alive, Lassie. He's going to be fine."

Then Juliet finally brought her hand down from her mouth, wide eyes locked on Lassiter. "I'm so sorry!" she cried in a hushed tone. Lassiter turned to her, both utterly relieved and confused. "I didn't think! I was just so worried about you and Shawn that I forgot - Or I hadn't realized that you thought - I mean..."

"O'Hara," Lassiter said sternly, suddenly resembling the man he was five days ago, much to everyone's solace. "How?"

"Shawn hid his phone under the mat in the backseat of their car," she answered immediately. "When we realized that he was missing and he wasn't answering our calls, we tracked the GPS on his cell phone and found it in the Ynez mountains. It took us a couple of hours to get everything organized, to get prepared...

"When we arrived the cabin where Shawn's phone was, we came across three men carrying Shawn in a - a tarp, to go dump him. We don't know where they were planning, yet. While some officers arrested them and another man inside, we found Shawn in the tarp, and Henry managed to resuscitate him just in time. Henry insisted on coming, you know how he is.

"Once Shawn was breathing, he noticed the burns on his chest and smelled the ammonia. There was a water basin by the door of the cabin. We used that to wash away the burns while we waited for the paramedics to catch up. The busses had to go a lot slower because of the curves in the road.

"We found you inside, strapped to that chair. We thought you were dead, too, but you were just unconscious. You didn't wake no matter how hard Chief Vick and I tried. You did when the EMTs arrived and got you prepped for the ride."

Juliet gave Lassiter a watery smile as he absorbed this information. Then he nodded and jerked his head toward the door, telling her to go see him.

"I'll come back later, okay?"

Lassiter waved her off tiredly, then wrapped his arms tenderly around Marlowe. Only once he was sure he was alone with her did he begin to cry. She held him tightly as he did, stroking his hair lovingly and crying silently herself.

* * *

The next day, Lassiter was released with specific doctoral instructions to take at least a week off from work. He grudgingly agreed when the Chief seconded the doctor's opinion and then threatened to double it should Lassiter show his face at the station before that time.

Before he left, Lassiter visited Shawn in the ICU.

Henry was snoring loudly in a chair at Shawn's bedside. Guster was not there, but he simply guessed that he was at work or picking up some things for the Spencers' stay. Shawn himself was sleeping as well, lying flat on his back with his bandaged arms laid out and away from his sides.

While Marlowe stayed respectfully behind, Lassiter stepped forward, shoving his hands into his pockets as he assessed the damage.

Shawn's face was as bruised as his, though the swelling had gone down considerably, and someone had shaved away the stubble on his cheeks to make way for the breathing tube that was taped into place. Deep purple handprints were clearly visible on the soft flesh of Shawn's neck, and the slices on his ribs had been stitched closed.

His chest was open to the air because there simply was no way to bandage the dead, blackened flesh. To keep the skin from drying out as it healed, ointment had been smeared across the afflicted areas, which constituted of practically his entire front half. Lassiter swallowed thickly before he could get sick and wake both the Spencers.

He'd never live that one down.

Lassiter nodded slowly for no particular reason, fingering the bent, rusty nail he had kept. Suddenly he didn't want it anymore: It burned to the touch.

The detective pulled it out of his pocket and quickly dropped it into the garbage can at Shawn's beside. Then he turned and left, wrapping an arm around Marlowe's waist and assuring her that he was fine.

Shawn opened his eyes despite his exhaustion and watched as Lassiter and Marlowe went, then moved his curious gaze to the wastebasket.

* * *

For the next week, Lassiter relied on Juliet's updates on Shawn's health. He steadfastly refused to return to the hospital to visit him, no matter his improvements, and spent most of his time wrapped in Marlowe's embrace.

Then he picked himself up and went to work.

Unfortunately for him, he was assigned desk duty until further notice. It was almost as bad as doing nothing, in Lassiter's opinion. Still, he sucked it up and went to work, sipping on his coffee as he pored over case files and reviewed witness statements. Occasionally Juliet stopped by his desk and engaged him in conversation, but he was usually (and understandably) irritable.

Most of his coworkers welcomed him back in passing, which he shrugged off. McNab brought him a bouquet of daisies, but Lassiter glared at him until he retracted the flowers and offered them to a surprised Juliet instead.

All in all, things were back to normal at the SBPD. Well, as normal as normal got without Shawn lurking or causing mayhem.

A week after coming back to work, Lassiter was granted his first investigation with Juliet. He had to promise not to overwork himself, to which he quickly agreed. He wasn't entirely sure if he were going to keep that promise, though. He would think on it.

As he reviewed the report of the initial confrontation he would be checking into, the sound of a chair dragging across the floor caught his attention. He shook his head as it became louder, not ready to go off on whatever poor idiot was annoying him.

The poor idiot appeared in front of his desk and set the chair in front of it, then took an obnoxiously long and loud sip of his smoothie. With an exaggeratedly satisfied sigh, he sat stiffly in the chair, then relaxed into it, looking expectantly at Lassiter.

Lassiter remained frozen for a long few seconds, then slowly lowered the case file and look steadily back at Shawn Spencer, psychic detective.

"So you're alive," Lassiter said coolly, though his heart was thudding in anticipation. What was Shawn going to say to him? Lassiter, of course, had already given his report on what had happened, and so had Shawn, but the detective hadn't been privy to that information. Nor did he want to see it. But Shawn could easily blame him for everything he'd gone through, and with good reason.

To his surprise, Shawn grinned widely. "Can't get rid of me that easily, Lassie."

Immense relief flooded through Lassiter, for some reason he couldn't fathom. Why did he care so much what the idiot felt? He rolled his eyes. "How do you do it?"

Shawn set his sweating smoothie down on a stack of Lassiter's work, much to his disdain, and then raised that hand to his temple. "I wish I knew," he replied mysteriously.

Lassiter glared at him until he took the cup back off of his desk, then heaved a sigh at the wet ring on his report. He discreetly took notice of Shawn's stiff posture and the way he was dressed. He was wearing a green shirt that was entirely too large for him, and he had to wonder where it had come from. His left arm was encased in a neon yellow cast, already scribbled over with what seemed to be everybody and their mother's signatures. He couldn't even pick out an individual name.

Luckily for him, Lassiter didn't have to force himself to come up with something else to say because at that precise moment, Henry Spencer arrived in all his worried-father glory.

"Shawn!"

"Hey, Dad!" Shawn greeted, raising his useless hand. "How'd you get here?"

" _I_ took a cab, Shawn," Henry growled angrily, pointing a finger at his son's chest, "because _you_ stole my truck!"

Shawn looked offended, while Lassiter watched on in interest. "I did no such thing! Father, you wound me. I _borrowed_ the truck. I was going to bring it back to the hospital."

"You're not even supposed to leave the hospital!"

"I wanted a smoothie."

"I was going to go get you one!"

"You were taking too long in the bathroom, Dad."

"Shawn!"

"And I wanted to see my friends here."

Henry groaned loudly. "Go get in the truck, Shawn. No, give me the keys now, and then go get in the truck. Where the hell did you get that shirt?"

"I found it," Shawn muttered vaguely, setting his smoothie down again to dig around in his pockets, pulling out all manner of odds and ends, including but not limited to: a penny, a ball of lint, a used tissue, a small (and empty) bottle of baby shampoo, a receipt, and a red pen cap - All of which was dumped unceremoniously on Lassiter's desk. "Ah, here's Gus' debit card. Can you give that to him later? And...keys."

Lassiter glared at the utter crap on his desk, while Henry glared at Shawn, who looked between the two older men. "Well, I'm going now. Lassie, consider those yours. A gift from me to you. Goodbye."

Henry followed Shawn out of the police station, ranting his ear off about one thing or another. Lassiter rolled his eyes once they were out of hearing range, then proceeded to swipe Shawn's "gift" off of his desk and into his wastebasket.

He stopped short when he saw something familiar. Lassiter slowly picked it up, shaking his head as a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

In his hand was a rusty nail.

END.

 **A/N:** Eh, not my best work, but thanks so much for reading! I really appreciate you guys! ^-^


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